The Scarecrow and the Scythe
by Writing1sLife
Summary: The field... it isn't what it appears. Leave now, or else.
1. Chapter 1

**The Scarecrow… and the Scythe**

The boy was scared out of his mind. He ran in terror, soaked with sweat, his heart pounding hard in his ears and chest. It felt like it might explode at any moment inside him for he was exhausted from having never run so hard and so far in his life, yet his terror drove him harder than his body's desire for rest.

"Father," he croaked out in horror. "Brother…"

He tripped and crashed over an unseen obstacle. He thudded painfully to the ground and skidded to a stop. His whole body shook up and down from the enormous, heaving gasps of air his body demanded, as if it could never get enough.

_**TMP.**_ The boy jolted upright his eyes wide and ears strained. The noise… it meant…

He was running again. He had heard it and something else: A caw; a flapping of wings.

"Father…"

Suddenly, his legs went flying out from under him. This time he felt that he had been physically struck by something. It had come in a sweeping arc, wide and low, striking him near the ankles. He fell flat, and then the pain hit in full. He screamed, feeling blood flow and fly with each pulse of his heart. _**TMP. TMP.**_

"Father," he sobbed trying to pull himself along with hands and knees, tears flowing with wild abandon, his voice choked, every sense screaming in agony.

"Oof," he groaned as a foot that was not a foot stomped upon his back. The hardened point on his back… it didn't belong to his father or anything human. His head was yanked back by the hair so he was forced to stare at the night sky with its stars. Then he screamed because it was all he had the ability to do left. And he was still screaming when his throat was cut.

**. . . . .**

That strange old thing, what ever was it doing out there? That was the question the farmer had. It had bothered him for some time since he had first noticed it. The man who used to own this land; he had a funny idea about his field. In it was an interesting scarecrow. Interesting was the word in particular for there was a scythe, rusted by the elements, dangling from one limb. He had pulled the unusual thing off and sold it for a new tool with which to toil his trade.

The new scythe hung in his tool shed. His son and daughter had funny things to say about it at times. That, and the scarecrow, which was the strangest part.

"It's so big. Are you sure it's safe to use? I saw another farmer who uses a sickle rather than this. Why do you use it daddy?"

"Because daddy is strong, and daddy will not make excuses about cutting the grass or harvesting the wheat."

"Dad… I don't like the scarecrow. He bothers me. I swear he looks right at me."

"Well that is okay because Mister Scarecrow is not alive. He is only there to bother the birds. He keeps them away."

"But dad, he doesn't drive them away. They come and sit on him without concern whatsoever. It's almost like they like him. And whenever they rest on him, they also look at me. I swear that all the birds do that when they are with him."

"Why do they do that daddy? Why aren't they scared of him?"

To that the man had no answer. Why would the birds not be frightened away? The question he had that bothered him was why a scythe was hanging from the thing out in the field. Nobody he had ever known ever would do such a thing.

**. . . . .**

The farmer was happy with his family, his wife and kids. Life went on well and peaceful. Autumn was coming. It could be felt in the air. A number of unusual things were to be noted, all strange and more disturbing and unusual than the last: the scythe, the home, and the birds.

The house seemed to whisper and make strange sounds. In all the time that he had been here, the farmer had never once lost sleep. Now he lost plenty, as did the rest of his family. The animals seemed a little different in their behavior to.

They avoided the field, something they never had before. In fact, nothing approached it now. The dogs had not been inside to chase off any thieves after the corn or other plants, nor had anything else. The insects, unnoticed by anyone, didn't go inside it either. Nothing had entered or disturbed the field in the least. It was a sign that there would be quite the bountiful harvest this year. But there was something off about it, something that scratched at the back of the mind.

The scythe was missing. It made no sense and he knew that the kids had done nothing with it. His wife, she did a thorough search, just like all the rest of them. Where could it have gone? It was missing… as was the scarecrow. When had it vanished? And then there was the birds.

They kept appearing in greater numbers by the day, and they didn't leave. They did not make any noise, just sat there, stared at you or at each other, ruffled their feathers, but never moved on.

Then one day it was back; the scarecrow was back. That night was different. He had seen enough. He went out into the field as the sun set and stared at it. "What exactly are you, you straw-stuffed mystery you? Hmm? What exactly are you?"

The birds were gone as well. They had been a large cloud all over the place for a while, and then they had simply vanished. That was nice, but unusual. The animals had been strangely quiet. The dogs seemed nervous, and the cows were not their cheerful selves, nor the bulls aggressive, but rather meek.

The air had a funny feeling to it as the night began to fall. Winter was not on its way just yet, no, it was something else. He quietly checked over everything, just feeling a need for security. Checked the wall of the shed. No, the scythe was not back, of all the things that had returned.

He walked back to the house. On the path stood a lone crow. It stared at him with an unnerving gaze. "Oh, move you," he said, slightly uncomfortable. He attempted to move it with his boot, but it actually flapped back into the same position and pecked at the offending thing. This was most unusual and aggressive behavior. He tried to move around it, but the bird kept hopping in the way. The bird unexpectedly exploded off the ground in a flurry of claws and stabbing beak at the man's face. The farmer yelled and was forced to shield himself. He yelled and swatted at the attacker until he found a sturdy piece of wood and swung with all his might.

The bird fell with a cloud of bloodstained feathers and a broken neck. Breathing ragged and bleeding from scratches on his arms and a peck or two on his hands, the man stumbled back towards his house. Then he noticed the light. The sun was not out but the moon was. What was that light? Coming… the direction from… the house!

He forgot everything. He ran with blind abandon. The light only meant one thing: Fire! His wife and children! They were inside and surely didn't know! His running feet brought him to the house and his wife screaming in mad hysteria. That was when heard over the fire the sound and saw why she was not rushing into the blaze. She was being pecked and clawed at by more crows. He seized a shovel and beat at them until, finally, those not injured or dead dispersed.

His wife's face was a horror, with empty bloodied eye sockets. The birds had gone for them first. "Th-th-the… the children…" she gasped in his arms. He howled in fear and terror attempting to fight his way inside by the front door, but the flames choked every window and entrance. He couldn't get in. He tripped over something and fell near his wife. He returned to his knees and gazed in pained helplessness at the horror of his beloved home and the children he once had. Only then did his eyes notice what he had tripped over: an oil lantern, with shattered glass. The wooden building never stood a chance.

He turned back to the field… the scarecrow was gone from where it had hung. A long wooden pole like the scarecrow's "foot" stabbed out of the corn stalks into the dirt. This was followed by an unexpected, yet familiar, site, the missing scythe, now held in inhuman hands as the corn parted and closed. The scarecrow was standing before him and his blind, groaning, wife eyes blazing with green helfire and a nasty gash of a smile on its features.

It opened its mouth to reveal that its features appeared like great jagged teeth on an animal that slid together. With a slight bend of the knees, the scarecrow thrusted a taloned finger and the edge of the field exploded with a great cawing murder of black feathers and talons. The birds savaged the woman and bowled the farmer over as they charged him en masse. They swirled in a great black cloud over the house not minding the choking smoke, embers, or flames. Their cawing and the roar of the fire blended into a terrible chorus that caused the man to clap his hands over his ears to attempt to shut out the awful noise. His squinted eyes were unable to shut out seeing his wife savagely attacked by more crows, blood flying, nor could his hands cut out the awful _laughter_ of the scarecrow, standing with its arms spread wide, just soaking it all in, embracing the death and chaos.

His spirit broke and the man turned, maddened and overwhelmed by fear, laughter pursuing him. He fled the path only to hear a howl of joy behind him. He turned enough to see the house with the cawing mass of birds swirling over it and the field, but it was the scarecrow chasing him down with long, gangly strides that stroked the flame of his terror even brighter. Those eyes! The teeth! The scythe! He must not die at the hands of this thing! He mustn't! A stench caught his nose and he vomited but didn't stop running.

He risked another glance back. Gone! Where? The scythe came swinging through the stalks at the right side and the farmer attempted to dodge to the left. He was partially successful, but the finely honed and sharpened blade still drew blood. He groaned from where he landed and began to drag himself. The scarecrow chuckled and promptly stepped on him. The smell was one of rotting things. It was hay, farm animals, and all manner of vegetation; all of it rotten and eaten of foulness.

"You want to know what I am?" spoke the scarecrow in a muffled voice choked by hay. "The last people here found out, just like you."

His head was pulled up so that he was forced to stare into those awful, awful eyes. "This field is _mine_. Everything here is _mine_. It's just us, and that is how it always is. The last ones here we killed and feasted on, and we shall do the same with you."

The farmer shuddered as sweat trickled down his face to sting his eyes and soak his clothes anew. His mind was suddenly filled with visions of dead livestock, of crows feasting on remains, of burning homes, of slaughtered babies, and all manner of death. "Thank you for this," smiled the jagged mouth of the scarecrow, waving the blade of the scythe in the man's face. "I was wanting for a sharper blade, but allow me to assure you that there is one that never grows dull and it is always with me. Fear. Nothing cuts sharper than it."

The scarecrow slit the man's throat and then the birds descended upon the corpse, tearing skin to expose tendons, muscle, sinew, while the fire that the scarecrow had started burned away the house to nothing but ashes. A crow came to rest on the scythe. "Yes it's just us," said Fiddlesticks, rubbing a finger across the bird's head and down its blood-spattered beak. "And we shall kill and eat the next ones unwise enough to come here. After all, this is ours. _Only ours_."


	2. Chapter 2

Feast, Famine, & Rise

There was a man. A very strange and lonely man. This man was a villager who lived a very lonely and isolated life. Out in the world that he lived in, food was everything, especially in a village where trade brought in and took away. But hard times change even the best of people.

In times of wealth and prosperity, many are willing to forgive and forget. In a time when there is hardship, misery, suspicion and fear, it is amazing the changes that may take place and what actions people shall take out of sheer desperation. This man learned just how terrible human nature could be. And it made something even more terrible out of him.

**. . . . . . .**

"But I swear unto you! I have not done this! I am not responsible!" howled the man. The crowd had shone up in the middle of the night and drug him from his bed. Times were lean upon the village and paranoia had began to take hold. The fear of starvation and thirst was beginning to eat at the most hardened of souls. Many were looking for a source. This whole horrid affair had continued until everyone was joined in the cause. All wanted but one answer: Who is to blame? What is the cause?

The lonely and isolated hut where the man lived was prey for the fear-crazed villagers. Everyone came to the same conclusion and it mattered not that he was as miserable as they were. They determined that they must leave and go to a new place in which to live, but first they would make sure the source of their woes and troubles would answer to "justice". They dragged him, in the middle of the night, out of his house to a stake in the middle of his barren field and tied him very roughly and tightly to it.

His screams and cries for mercy went unanswered. His house was burnt down, and the man himself, left to rot by starvation. Days of misery and pain found him loathing the sun and cursing his parched mouth. The birds began to circle, but every time they pecked at him, his shouts drove them off. This could not continue indefinitely however, and he eventually became to weak to do much. How he came to envy them, for they could express their freedom through flight. They did not starve, for they could depart to seek water or food. He wished he were a bird, but he was nothing, nothing but a mass of weakness and misery, his soul cursing the wretchedness and cruelty of his people.

Then the day came when he breathed his last, one final curse, and fell asleep; never to awaken again.

**. . . . . . .**

The birds had descended en masse to feed. The bones had been picked clean. A lone figure in the swirling waves of heat across the dry earth. One of the former villagers, having moved from the rest, feeling it best to seek his fortunes elsewhere. The land seemed familiar to him, but there was nothing recognizable apart from a large field of tall plants and stalks of corn. The wind had carried seeds, alongside the birds, to this area, and the rains had brought vegetation sprouting again.

For some reason, the man's conscience felt a prick. The field held some strange and familiar feeling. He felt guilty. Why? There was nothing to trouble him here. Right?

He unrolled his bed, made a small place, and ate his dinner. Still, his thoughts kept wandering and he struggled to fall asleep. Was there something watching him? The shadows danced and swirled from the small fire he had lit. It had been several years since the hard times that had worn him down and made him accuse that man of bringing the famine upon them all. Why was he thinking of them?

Now that he considered it, he did feel guilty. He may have very well tied the very knots in the rope that bound that man himself. Did that all-but-forgotten man even have a name? And his face… he could not see it. It bothered him and ate at him until he finally could stand it no more. He exited his bed and knelt on the earth. "If you can hear me out there… please forgive me. I did not think, did not consider. I wish that I could take it back… but I cannot."

He felt a little better for having made some form of penance, and quietly went to his bed. He lay down and found himself easily falling to sleep. The fire died down. It died down perhaps a little _too_ quickly.

**. . . . . . .**

Dust swirled in circular patterns. A limb emerged. A bird quietly observed it. Simply observed it; did not run, blink, or express any concern.

"Haaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh." A long slow exhalation. A presence. A soul. A familiar one; called back to this place of emptiness perhaps? It mattered not.

Tmp. One slow step. Then another. And another. Closer. Closer. Each step just a little closer. And with each step, the nightmares and choking fear waxed a little stronger.

Closer still. So very close now.

**. . . . . . .**

The man twitched and moaned. His eyes danced back and forth madly behind his eyelids. His bedroll was soaked with sweat. Terrible visions and nightmares danced about in his mind. Garish and ugly figures stalked him, laughed at him, tormented him, chased him. He could not escape, couldn't get away. Couldn't…

**. . . . . . .**

Delicious. And the sweet, pleasant taste was growing riper; more tantalizing with each second. A little bit longer.

_Just hold a little longer my companions. Its coming soon. Just a little more._

**. . . . . . .**

"GAAAHHHHH!" The man awoke with a blood-curdling scream. He was soaked with sweat and gulping air in heaving gasps. So real. The last vision… so very real. Thank goodness it had only been a dream. But what a terrible dream. Never had he experienced something like it.

Caw.

What in the world?

Caw.

The man's eyes darted to and fro.

There. A crow. What was such a bird doing here? It was night-time, and there was no place to roost here, no trees. Why?

Caw, caw. With a flap of wings, it departed, but not before its eyes caught his. _Red_. Its eyes had been red.

Thmp.

A new noise. What now? Was something out there?

Thmp. "H-hello?" he called out uncertainly to the darkness of the rustling stalks. "Is… Is anybody there?" Sssssssshhhhhhhhh. The wind sighed and rustled through the stalks, but no reply came.

It was moonless night. The breeze chilled the sweat-soaked man and cut him down to the bone. Thmp. There it was again. He looked about with fear dancing its icy, needle-like fingers on his spine.

A new sound. A chuckle. His blood turned to ice at the sound. The stalks rustled and swished. Something was inside them. Something that was coming right towards him! He should run. He _must_ run. But he was paralyzed and somehow could not budge; merely remain transfixed upon the long waving plants, and the source of that awful sound that kept chuckling at random and kept coming closer.

The stalks parted slightly as a thin limb thrust out. A hand looking as if it were woven of cloth pushed aside the blades and limbs and the rest of the figure attached stepped out into view underneath the moonless sky. The man's heart clenched in his chest at the sight of green eyes blazing with unearthly fire.

"Heh-heh-heh." The figure that seemed to be some ghastly scarecrow smiled at him. A cawing and flapping of wings, and a crow joined it, resting upon its shoulder. The bird's eyes _were_ indeed blood-red. And the scarecrow was holding in its hands… a scythe.

"You aren't supposed to be here," smiled the scarecrow. "You seem… familiar. But we don't care about that right. But we are… hungry you see. We are always hungry and empty. Kind of like this field. And when someone comes here…"

The scarecrow looked away and stroked the bird gently. "Well when some uninvited person comes along" -the ghastly figure looked at the sweating man- "we simply have to do something about it, don't we?"

That ugly smile! And those eyes! The man finally felt his nerves shatter like taut strings, and he scrambled to get his feet underneath him and run. He got up and started to turn, but the scarecrow bent its knees slightly and gave a smile of glee. "Please do run. It just makes the taste that much sweeter for us."

The man began to run, and the harsh breath of the scarecrow chased him. The field exploded with birds. Cawing, flapping wings, black feathers, talons and beaks. It drove him mad and filled his eyes and ears, until he could not tell where he was running, just hoping and praying that it was away from these living terrors. A spinning, swirling circle that looked like the thrown scythe cut the man near the legs. He stumbled and clutched at his side as the wounds bled, but he didn't stop. Eventually his exhaustion dropped him, and he fell on the ground sobbing.

He did not know where he might be, merely that he was dreading the absence of the day and cursing the presence of the night. Thmp. His head jerked up. Where?! Shwing! He heard the whistle of the wind over the sharp blade and dove to the side, but the scythe caught his fingers on his left hand, save his thumb.

He wailed and clutched at the bleeding stump. Thmp, thmp. The scarecrow casually stepped into view. The man turned his tear-filled eyes to stare at what surely would be his death. "You…" his voice trembled.

"Don't bother asking," chuckled the straw-stuffed figure. "I might have had a name; don't know. And while it is kind of funny, I don't care. Its just us here. My feathered friends and me." The ugly smile faded and something ugly blazed in the green helfire of those eyes. "But I do seem to have some memory of something bad happening here in this place. I do believe I owned this place. And I know one thing: I shall not let anyone else here. Maybe I once let other come here and feed upon my generosity. Every time I see others, all I want, is to taste their fear. I want them to be scared." The eyes glinted and sparked at this.

"This place is _mine_. And anyone here other than us" -wings rustling, the sound of cawing in the distance closing in- "they _scream_, and they _cry_. Much as your doing right now." The man yelled in terror and fell back against the earth as crow fell upon him, pecking, clawing, stabbing relentlessly, blood flying and spattering the earth and beaks and feathers.

The scarecrow simply sighed and calmly stroked the head of the crow with him with a smile. By the time the sun rose, nobody who found their way here could possibly know what had occurred, for the field was like an empty, barren womb, a yawning grave. It devoured and swallowed whole, yet never was filled or satisfied.


	3. Chapter 3

As a Family, Always

The Reiz family. A family of three generations, all living together. Martha and her husband were happy grandparents. Rodick and his wife Natasha were the parents of twins, a boy and a girl. A fine and simple life they lived. They were rich in their lives. Never did they make vast sums of wealth, but they had a blessed life and were hoping for a third child. Martha and Beshem were happy to have grandchildren. While Natasha had not followed in the business of shoe making, the grandkids were valuable help for the aged and worn fingers of Beshem. Rodick was a loved addition to the family for he was a simple man who had gained a famous reputation without desiring it. He was called by many to be the greatest of toymakers in Piltover. The city of wonders mechanical and crafts most inventive, was blessed by the presence of the man. They did not live amongst pastures, but rather brick towering buildings all made by the hands of man, and the sea brought ships with plentiful goods like no other so that the city could forever keep changing without seeming end.

Though the house was containing two couples and a pair of twins, it was like a large mansion inside. Smooth white paint blended with beautiful browns on the stairs and rails on the upper floors. The twins were both approaching their twelfth years, and Rodick was hoping to make this a special year for both. His son Matthew was seeking to take his skills out into the world. He longed for adventure and to seek out new wonders. He sought the path of discovery amongst ruins, to find new marvels of technology or magic even. But he lacked the power of mobility. He was also in love with animals. He needed a companion and a friend.

His daughter, Saylia, was seeking to take her grace and beauty out on to the stage with the power of her unusual skills in dancing. She was skilled at weaving dresses alongside the talents she had with shoes. He fingers seemed to have skills with coaxing the material to move like magic to create the most comfortable and long-lasting fit. Matthew could always be counted to seek out only the materials that would fit the need. He was skilled at bargains and talk with traders, merchants and store owners. This gave him skilled knowledge at his choices in purchasing.

The time of celebrating their birthdays was near and Rodick was praying he could keep his secrets until the time was right. Natasha could keep quiet, but he wondered about her parents. Best not take the chance and so he said nothing.

**. . . . . .**

Zaun: twin sister and dark half of Piltover where inventiveness existed, but in a darker and more reckless fashion, producing horrors and strange marvels that baffled at them even possibly existing. Hidden from the sun by a thick layer of smog, the city remained in a state of perpetual twilight. Raw green sewer water and other toxic pollution covered, or slowly made its way through, the streets and sewer system.

The city was no stranger to dark things; but tonight… tonight was different. A strange presence was intruding and then disappearing. Some of those on the streets felt it, despite a strange fog obscuring vision. They moved elsewhere, fear driving them to seek to avoid the path of… whatever or whoever it was that was passing by. One denizen sensed and sought to find the source, but it moved far too quickly.

**. . . . . .**

_Where? There was something to be found, a little entertainment to be had. There had been pleasure to have out near the mountains of Targon, but where was something truly unprepared and unsuspecting? Not down here in this place where dim days, and even darker nights existed. Too many souls used to darkness._

_Where was something living in the light and innocent of how the nights could be become? Still searching. And it would be that way until the time finally came. Then… oh yes then…_

**. . . . . .**

It was the special night. Everything was in order. Saylia and Matthew would be home soon. He had come home early. He hoped it would be soon that his children would be home for Marsha was complaining of a slight twinge in her old bones. Whenever that happened, "it's gonna be a cold 'un you mark this one's words. These old bones know when the cold be comin' off the sea."

Fog would be rolling in and that would make the streets of Piltover interesting to walk on with limited vision. The ships would also put into port if it was especially thick. With night approaching it didn't matter because there was no moon so it would be dark no matter what the state of the fog.

Rodick was pleased when they finally came home none the worse for wear as was his wife. He clapped his hands to get their attention. "Wash up, and then we shall have gifts to give." He looked them both over flatly. "Both of you. No exceptions, this is a special day."

"Yes father," came the confused, yet obedient, reply.

"Fresh clothes. The kind you would like to be seen in."

Matthew returned dressed in black with a brown vest and boots to match. He looked rugged and ready for the wilderness, yet presentable for any occasion. Saylia Reiz was clothed in beautiful white, a dress that flowed and shimmered occasionally flashing with the colors of the rainbow. It had been a fabric her brother had fought hard to find, and she had slaved for many days creating a beautiful dress from it.

"I am ready Father as is my sister."

He had grown so tall, and he was not yet even in his twenties. He was going to be a giant in so many ways. He would surely do good for the world. She was still like a butterfly inside its cocoon. Her beauty was beginning to fully manifest but had not fully matured; not quite yet.

"Alright." Rodick slowly exhaled. "Matthew. Your gift is not here but is waiting for you nonetheless." He turned from his confused son to his daughter. "Your gift can only be revealed if you come with me."

"Father," Matthew protested, "what do you mean when you say that it is waiting for me? Where?"

Rodick beckoned him close, leaned over, and whispered into his ear. His face brightened in wonder. "At the docks? Truthfully?" His father nodded. "Then I shall go." He opened the door, then turned back. "I won't be long, looks like fog tonight."

**. . . . . .**

Matthew went down the streets. The sun had almost set, but he did not need to travel far to his destination. He had been preparing a stable for some time and now knew that his efforts had not been in vain.

At a nearby boat, was a trader holding the reins of a female horse with her nearby young foal. He was a beautiful one with white skin and the lushest, golden mane you ever saw. The youth gasped as he saw the foal. "I remember you," he said his eyes bright and his smile growing, as he walked to the foal. The foal walked towards Matthew and nuzzled his hands. It was steadier than last time, and the eyes shown with new life and bright intelligence. "I helped deliver you, for you mother was so weary and needed help."

"Ay, and he remembers you well to. I think he felt your carin' 'ands even while he were in the womb." The trader smiled. "Your pa came to me and wouldn't put up with free for you. We agonized over it for a time until we came to agreement on a price. I tell ye now, he don't want nobody but you. I ain't seen a foal that knows what it wants like him. He be a good beast and friend. Happy day of birth unto the both of ye." With that he handed a new saddle and equipment over to Matthew.

"Yer pa wouldn't want ye havin' this but I want this feller here to be long and prosperous in his years and strength. Made this for you my boy. Consider it a thank you for the birth. I was taxed to my limits, as was the mother; so, we both owe you a thanks for your help in that difficult time."

"Th-thank you," Matthew stated with trembling hands and voice as he gently took it. "Does he have a name?"

"I could not think of one." He smiled. "You name him. You know what he needs."

"I think… I think that I do."

The mother gave a snort and pranced slightly. Matthew looked up slightly. "Where did all this fog come from?" he asked his happiness fading into a sense of insecurity.

"Never seen it come in this quick in all me days," muttered the trader staring out at the water that was now obscured by a thick ghostly fog. It swirled and rippled, eddied and flowed, like it was alive. "Boy," the trader's voice was on edge. "I think you best be gettin' home right now and I be lockin' down everythin' tight and stiff."

"Why? What's going on?"

The trader nodded to the pair of horses. "Them. They know somethin'." His eyes were narrowed with suspicion and fear. "I think… I believe there's somethin' out there."

Tunk…tunk…TUNK.

**. . . . . .**

Saylia and her father walked the streets of Piltover to his shop. He quietly blindfolded her and then gently guided her through the door before closing and locking it.

Then he gently removed the cloth after he lit the lanterns. The twelve-year-old gasped in wonder. The shop had transformed since the last time she had laid eyes upon it. There were so many different toys inside it now of various sizes and shapes. From those that would sit easily in your hand, to those that were as tall as a man; from rocking horses, to life-like soldiers, all manner of life from beast to man on display in the form of gears and clockwork shaped by her father's hands.

Rodick turned and spread his arms. "Heh. I have been busy. This is part of the surprise. I am now being called the best creator of toys in Piltover. I am doing more business than I can possibly handle." He took her hands in his. "And so… I would like you to come aid me in your spare time. Your hands will help me in make more wonders until the time of your departing into the world."

"Oh father," her eyes moistened. "I just-I just can't. It… it's just so much…"

He gently squeezed her hands. "Shhhh. It's alright. If you feel that you cannot, then I understand. But I don't want you to have nothing in this world. I want the best for you both, but I fear it is Matthew who stands a better chance than you, thus I wanted to teach you how make a trade so that your chances are that much greater for you and your future husband."

"Oh, but I… I must think on it. I cannot give you an answer right away."

"I understand," he smiled.

"And now… for your gift. Close your eyes." He turned and made his way for a cabinet tucked away near the shop's back. "Oh-oh-oh," he chided with a smile. "No peeking." Saylia giggled at this. He couldn't help but chuckle himself. Ah the temptation, it was so great. How could you stand not knowing?

He gently pulled it out, but it took some effort for the gift was large enough to require both arms. He placed it down in the center of the shop and gently wound it. A gentle song began to play. Saylia lowered her hands and gasped in wonder. A man clothed in a suit that was of the most beautiful golds, blues, and whites she had beheld. Twins swords rested upon either hip; large petals like those of a beautiful flower in bloom opened upon his back to reveal his graceful form. Gently the figurine knelt before her, a hand upon its bosom, then it rose and extended a hand unto her. She took it in wonder and the two began to dance.

Twirl, pirouette, part, and return, one, two, three, and gracefully spin. She was in a graceful garden, and the beautiful champion of a queen was her partner in dance. They parted and he gently danced, slowly and gracefully, a few moments more, before bowing, and then he folded inward and returned to the state of a bulb waiting to blossom in full again. Slowly the magic garden they had been in faded to the shop again.

She sobbed and rushed to her father, embracing him. She didn't need to hear anything from him. What this must have cost, the time and effort; this gift was too much to ever fully understand, but she knew it was meant to stay with her throughout her life. His finest efforts surely must have gone into the creating of this marvel that was like a defender offering his loyalty unwavering to a queen of her people. Her father was encouraging her to dance her way into the world and never stop, offering his permission to follow her dreams and never stop. This gift had so much in it that words failed to be able to encompass it all.

Saylia finally managed to sob out the words through overwhelmed tears of thankfulness. "I love you father." He gently stroked her head and she felt his tears strike her head. The two remained in the embrace, unable to let go for the powerful emotion that joined them together in this moment without much words.

"We'll take it with us. Home. It shall be yours to do with as you desire my dearest daughter. I give you my permission to go into the world and dance with all of your might and talent. But also know this." He gently tipped her face to meet his. "The home you were born into is always open to the both of you if you must come back for a time. You need not stay, but if you have to come back for a time, then you will not be turned away."

They quietly embraced now, the moment of bliss gone, but their love still joining them together as it only would to a parent and child.

**. . . . . .**

Was he being followed? The foal was skittish and nervous as was Matthew. What was this fog? He had hurried with saddle and his new friend towards home, but now he was not certain at all that he was going in the right direction. Why was he certain that he was going the wrong way when he was surely going the right way? Which direction was which? Surely, he had turned at the junction that he was meant to, had he not?

What was happening? Noise was playing with his ears. He could swear he felt himself being followed. But hearing it… he could not tell which direction. His ears were driving him mad. And he could swear to be hearing the foreign cries of a bird not native to this place.

There it was again. Where? Where?!

It was definitely coming closer; but where?!

**. . . . . .**

Tnk, tnk, tnk. Father and daughter broke off their embrace, startled. The door?! What was-? Tnk-tnk-tnk-tnk. The door handle began to viciously rattle and the door shake. Someone or something outside was fighting to force its way inside! If Rodick had not locked the door…

"Who's that?!" begged Saylia to her father who clutched her close.

"I-I don't know!" he said desperately searching the shop. There was only one way in, and one way out. He saw his only chance and quickly dragged his daughter to the nearest cabinet. "Quickly! In here! And don't come out!" He slammed the door shut and spun to face the door desperately in need of a tool to fight.

There was shattering of the glass and two objects came through. He gasped at the sight; and then the whole window shattered as something jumped through. **"YAH-HA-HA-HAH!"**

**. . . . . .**

A tearful and grief-stricken Saylia fled the streets and came crashing through the door to her home and slammed it shut. Matthew instantly seized her in an embrace sobbing with relief.

A bit of blood was on his beautiful clothes. He had a cut on one arm that was nasty to behold, and he had desperately managed to bind it. She was splashed on the face by blood from her father. When that-that… that _thing_ had burst into the shop, he had fought tooth and nail. And then, with a single stroke… It had come after her then and she had fled in desperation, her wounded and bleeding father catching it off guard, managing to buy her just enough time to flee the shop, chased by screams and laughter, clutching the beautiful present to her chest, her face red from her father's blood and her dress torn at the front edge near her left foot where the ghastly intruder had attempted to pull her out.

Natasha screamed in relief and clutched her children to her. Martha and Beshem both sighed in relief clutching at their breasts. "What happened? Where is Rodick?" asked Martha.

"He… he…"

"I'm going out there," Matthew said firmly picking up a pole. Saylia was instantly barring the door with her body. "Get out of the way I need to find him," insisted her brother.

"Don't go out there! It'll find you!"

"But dad-"

"IS DEAD!" she shrieked, sliding down the door sobbing, head in her hands. "It just… came through the window… and it had… it had a scythe. It tried… to… get me… and dad… didn't make it."

**. . . . . .**

_Shadows dancing all about in the light of the lanterns. Yelling and laughter. Fear, that dreadful scythe, green wychfire blazing in those awful eyes, the smell of damp, rotting hay, and those long gangly limbs with those ghastly, long, narrow fingers. The shattering of glass and pottery, the crunch of clockwork as they wrestled back and forth. Breaking things, throwing objects, her watching in terror from the crack in the door of the cabinet, and the cold, stark terror gripping her soul. That dreadful swing that landed that fatal blow on her father…_

**. . . . . .**

"Don't go out," she sobbed. "It will take you from me to." She whimpered. "Please."

"What will? What attacked you?" begged her mother gripping her shoulders desperately.

"A-a scarecrow or something like that. It had black birds with it. They attacked father at one point along with it." The girl trembled violently at the memory.

"We have to fight back," insisted Matthew. "This thing is why my horse is gone. He bolted because of it. I'm sure it was following me."

**. . . . . .**

_Black birds flying at random out of the thick fog; mobbing and harassing him, driving the foal mad with fear until it bolted from him, chased by the cawing forms of the crows. A gangly figure swinging a long blade at him and deliberately missing. Tripping him, dancing out of the fog only to vanish, its laughter and mad joy ringing in his ears. Black feathers falling and fluttering all around him, and that awful stench. Finally spotting home and fleeing like a terrified infant towards the door and praying it was open._

**. . . . . .**

"What does it want?" Matthew hissed between clenched teeth, staring out the window at the fog. "Why is this happening?"

"Matthew, we can't fight it, whatever it is," insisted Saylia.

"But we can't just expect it to leave us alone."

"But there is someone who can fight for us perhaps."

"Who?"

In response she slowly set her present down upon the floor. Her brother's face read confusion. "Father yelled out to me that in a time of need it could protect me; therefore, it can protect us."

"What is that supposed to mean? That's just a toy—"

"Father died screaming those words to me!" snapped the girl, rounding with blazing eyes on her brother. "Why would he say something worthless like that?"

Her brother backed off. She quietly began to wind the gift. "I believe father secretly learned a little of magic and poured it into this gift of his. The finest of his craftsmanship, everything he had in his talents. It was for me, but I think it was secretly unto us all."

**. . . . . .**

"Rf, rf, rf, rf." Grunting and slow steps aided by his instrument of killing. These streets of cobblestone; they made walking difficult for his long peg-like legs, but slowly and surely, he was advancing. The cobblestone slightly amplified his footsteps. They also highlighted the trail of blood from his burden in his left hand. He smiled. The hunt was coming to a very satisfying conclusion. The birds would feed well, and he would have much sport from their torment.

Ah yes. The palpable terror of his prey was growing stronger. Close now, so very close. Eh-heh-heh, oh yes so very close, so deliciously close now.

With every step, fear spread like a terrible whispering vapor into every dwelling and through the streets. Drunks were terrified out of their stupors as true terror gripped their souls; brave hearts cracked and quailed under the pressure of invisible fists squeezing their hearts.

Everyone could feel it. Terror was walking the streets of Piltover, and death was in its shadow.

**. . . . . .**

The musketeer unfolded from his flowerlike form, the petals swirling away to instead retreat to his back and remained there surrounding the wind-up mechanism upon his back. "He is coming my lady. I suggest you all flee, for I shall not be able to protect you all, nor hold this abomination at bay for long."

"Then I will—"

"Matthew, you can do no good here by trying to aid me."

"How do you know my name?"

"Your father made me in specific for your sister, but I am a defender of you all thanks to the magic he placed at my center to function as my heart." He tipped his hat slightly with its beautiful blue feather in it to Saylia. "My lady, there is a secret your father put into my creation, but it may only be used once and at a time of great need." He beckoned her over and whispered into her ear. "Only if there is no choice."

"I—" the girl said uncertainly.

KREESH! The window shattered as several thrown objects crashed through it. Everyone, save the flower-decorated musketeer and Matthew, screamed at the sight: severed heads. It was Rodick, the trader, and female horse from the docks. A gangly figure hopped on to the sill with a cackle as the musketeer drew his twin blades. Matthew gave a gasp at the sight hanging in its left hand. It was the still-bleeding head of the foal.

"He could run, but my friends made sure he didn't get far," chuckled the scarecrow, Fiddlesticks by name, not that anyone else knew it but him. Matthew shed angry tears and gripped the pole with trembling hands. The long-limbed, straw-stuffed figure with wood for arms and legs did not fail to notice his reaction. "Oh dear" -he waved the head slightly in his outstretched hand- "did this mean something special to you? You really should have heard him scream. Quite lovely."

Before a word or warning could be uttered Matthew yelled in rage and charged. "Get out of here all of you!" yelled the musketeer. "Flee for you lives! I will hold him for as long as I am able!" He ran at the scarecrow. "And I shall try save your brother!"

Saylia gave a sob and turned away to flee. She instantly took the stairs to get to Martha and Beshem. "Child," sobbed Martha, "we cannot flee. Our old limbs are too worn. Please save yourself and your mother."

"The secret passage out of this house," Beshem said with a sad smile. Saylia's eyes widened at this. It was real? Beshem nodded to her silent inquiry.

The elderly couple quickly took Martha and her towards a place she would never have looked. It was blank spot in a wall, but it was so out of the way that you would never suspect. Beshem seized the hesitant girl and shoved her through with surprising strength and determination. Natasha was shoved through by her mother without hesitation. "No!" wailed Natasha as Martha shook her head.

"Live my daughter! I love you!" And with that, Beshem slammed the exit shut and they were trapped in the dark. Sobbing, Natasha began to pull herself and her daughter away. As they moved away, terrible sounds began to intrude and reverberate throughout the small space.

**. . . . . .**

The scarecrow danced about the house, laughing and swinging his killing instrument with glee, while the musketeer coolly and calmly proceeded to parry and swipe in retaliation with his two blades. Thrust, parry, block; his task complicated by Matthew getting himself kicked aside by the gangly creature every time he charged blindly in swinging the long pole he had. If only he were not here, then…

The protector's concentration was only permitted to go so far because of the boy. Then a lit, flaming object crashed into the scarecrow. The effect was immediate, with the scythe flying out of his hands and the straw-stuffed creature falling about and running into things in blind panic or pain. The flames began to spread rapidly. The musketeer took the opportunity to seize Matthew and run for the elders on the upper floor. Matthew was still somehow determined to attack the scarecrow. Having little choice, the boy was knocked unconscious and handed off to Martha and Beshem, but not before they wound him up thoroughly, then the automaton proceeded to blast the flaming figure of Fiddlesticks out of the house with a mighty gust of wind and light blue flower petals.

The flames were incredibly put out as well. "Thank you," said the automaton. "That was a timely intervention."

"Take the boy and leave at once. You know where our granddaughter is. Protect her."

The musketeer bowed slightly and looked at the two. "But what of yourselves? I cannot simply abandon you."

"This sacrifice is ours to make. That awful creature may return. If we can manage, we shall join you, but I fear it will not happen. Protect the future of this household. Protect the children."

Martha nodded with tears in her eyes. "As a family always."

The musketeer bowed low and spoke in a voice that sounded truly pained. "Always." His hand crossed his chest to rest upon his breast, and then he leapt the balcony with Matthew and fled out the window.

All was quiet in the ruined interior of the house. Then the fallen scythe began to quiver and shake.

The flapping of wings in the distance. Cawing, the air being beaten mercilessly by a mass of flapping forms. The scythe shot up into the air and spun with green energy in a blazing circle, so it was like a vertical disc. The murder of birds crashed through the window causing Martha and Beshem to shield their eyes and cover their ears. The black mass began to spiral and swirl in a column in the ruined house, a figure materializing in it. A long, thin limb reached up and the scythe snapped into the hand that caught it. Then the scythe served as a support while the rest of the figure inside the vortex of avian bodies and black feathers began to "climb" out of the ground. Despite all the noise, it could be heard groaning and sighing.

Martha and her husband simply watched, chilled, as the scarecrow manifested anew. Then the scythe was swung with fury, cleaving aside the obstructing birds and spraying blood across the walls and broken furniture. The green eyes blazed as they spotted the elderly two standing atop the upper level. "No. More. Games. Kill you all. Hurt me. I hurt you even more. Make you scream even louder for this."

Martha tilted her head back and gazed coldly down at the Harbinger of Doom. "You can teach us nothing creature. The only thing you may learn from this, is that the living and those who live to cause suffering shall never have peace. You will always need the living, but we have no need for the dead. When there is nothing left to kill, that is the day you shall enter a new purgatory."

With that Beshem stepped from behind his wife and hurled a lit candle down to the lower floor. The scarecrow glared angry daggers at them as flames began to spread. "You will die if you stay here. Your supposed to run."

"Running is what _you_ want," snapped Beshem his voice determined and set. "We have no reason to run; we have every reason to stand before you in defiance. You do not control anything about us and never will you. Our lives and the ends we may suffer, even if it is at your hands, will never be determined by soulless, empty husk."

He pointed his aged hand without fear. "You are already dead. You know nothing of existence, therefore you come to steal ours in order to create a false life for yourself. But I deny you! I defy you! You shall never truly have us no matter what you do! So kill us, destroy our flesh; our spirits are beyond your reach!"

The scarecrow angrily leapt towards the stairs, heeding not the flames spreading and eating in random patches at the house. He raced up them as fast as his peg-like points for legs would permit. Gone! Where had they gone? There, a shut door. It was sealed shut for it did not yield to his charge. He continued to beat and hammer away at it.

Martha and Beshem clung to each other, in the room, simply watching the door. The gangly figure finally broke through in cloud of splinters and flaming sparks. He simply stood where he had landed, crouched, angry, scythe clenched in his angry right fist. The flames painted the blade a bloody, crimson red-orange, and made the blackness of the starry night streaming through their open window even more horrific as the shadows and smoke swirled together.

Despite the terror and imminence of their end, the two remained staring in resolute calmness and determination at their killer. Then the terror-bringer deepened his crouch, and sprang, fingers like reaching claws, scythe open wide in his right to make a cutting sweep that would reap their existence.

**. . . . . .**

Matthew awoke with a start and an angry yell. The musketeer was nowhere to be seen, except for the beautiful form that he always manifested from next to him, and his sister and mother. The two had managed to start a fire, and were sitting there in silence, staring into the flames. Their dresses were filthy, and Saylia still had the tears from where her attacker had pulled upon the fabric.

"Where, where are we? Where is it?" Matthew asked, trembling with leftover adrenaline and emotion.

"We took a secret exit that deposited us outside the town, but as for that thing, I don't know nor care." Natasha's voice was flat and weary, crushed of the life that used to exist in it.

Matthew was seized by a hot violent anger as his mind flashed back to the moment when he saw his beloved horse's decapitated head, and then it all collapsed, and he fell to weeping and sobbing uncontrollably. It was like a dam had broken and a flood of weariness and grief drowned him. His mother stood and drew him close to the fire. He merely remained limp and her daughter had to help her carry him to the seat.

"Wh-wh-why…? Why is all of this happening? What does all of this mean?" he whispered into the dark. Then he stiffened slightly, and his eyes widened. "D… d-d-daddy…" With that he fell to weeping and shaking even harder, his sobs visibly shaking him each time he inhaled. Natasha had no words, but she drew her son close and simply held him close, letting his tears stain the red fabric of her dress.

Saylia departed the fire to the bulb and wound it. Quietly the musketeer unfolded, slowly, solemnly, and with seeming weariness. He walked over and simply stood there, understanding, and yet watchful. There was no more fog, but night had fallen completely now. The moon was out, but its light would prove of little aid if they were to be attacked.

"We are not safe until the night is over," he said. "It is possible that we are still sought even now. I am the only way truly capable of fighting it, yet I fear I cannot do that as I am now." He looked over to Saylia. "May I talk with you in private?" She nodded.

Natasha held Matthew and watched out of a corner of her eye. Her husband, dead. Her parents, also doubtlessly slain. She had seen the look in their eyes. They had made sacrifices out of themselves to give them a chance to escape that thing for good. But had they succeeded? She felt cold at the thought. She suddenly felt an urge to look around. Nothing. No birds or anything, but she suddenly felt very small and alone; her children, their protector, and herself, in the night, yet somehow in the palm of something far greater than her mortal senses could perceive.

It was only a perceived image, yet somehow it felt so very real. She was afraid, very afraid, and she was bothered most by the mystery. She clutched her son close. Matthew had fallen silent but was still leaning upon her. He moved a little, as if he sensed the change. Finally, she could stand it no longer. "Matthew? Have you ever been afraid without knowing why?"

**. . . . . .**

_Pain. That was what it was. Unable to die, but definitely feel pain. It hurt more to come back, that it did to be struck in any shape or form._

_They kept him alive, fed on him, had consume once, and then bonded with his soul. Could still remember the pecking, the clawing, to week to stop them, yet aware of them. And then the violation that yanked back against the void of emptiness and pulled back into existence as a thing that was not and yet was alive._

_Blazing with hatred. "Wretched flames made me REMEMBER." Clench the scythe harder. "Got souls yeah? Well you WON'T by time I'm finished!" Harsh exhalations visible, the chill of his soul visible. "Need more. Fear. Nothing cuts like it. I am fear, and I need more. WANT more."_

_Hungry. Feed._

**. . . . . .**

Natasha gave a small start. "No!" she heard her daughter saying. "I cannot do that!"

The voice of their guardian carried on the wind. "It must be if I am to fulfill this and protect you all. A sacrifice is asked. We no longer know what this night holds. And beyond all of that…"

Her daughter was speaking too softly now to be heard, but she somehow heard her whispering anyway. "There is no other way? If I do this… you…" She was quiet for a time. "I'll do it. I will set you free."

As Natasha watched, her daughter slowly, almost reverently, walked behind the auto-mechanical man, and placed her hands upon the turning mechanism on his back concealed behind the beautiful petals.

**. . . . . .**

Saylia breathed out slowly. The wind gently whispered across her reluctant hands and spirit. "I don't want to do this," she whispered in a low voice. The pain was impossible to conceal. What she was attempting to do, could not be undone, not unless she never did it in the first place. But if she did not… she felt like the world had shrunken around her and her guardian gifted unto her by the love of her father. She was in a small space and it was just the two of them, a dark unknown surrounding the circle of light shining upon them…

A tear slid unbidden down her cheek. It landed with a soft sound in the grass at her feet. "I love you." With that, she curled her fingers upon the pin… and pulled it free.

**. . . . . .**

Wha-?! An explosion of feeling in the air. A trembling of sorts in the dark. A new light bursting into existence. A threat. A clear and present danger.

_We must end it. We must end it nownownownownownow…_

**. . . . . .**

The glade burst into life with newly made life born right on the spot from the blast of brilliance and magic. The figure of the musketeer was standing with head inclined back to stare up at the heavens, arms out, palms upward. Saylia was on her knees a few feet away from the figure hidden in light and power, holding the removed piece in her hands gazing down at it, her tears falling upon it.

Natasha had been forced to squint and use her arm to partially shield her eyes, but she could still see what was happening and look around in wonder. Life; life was blossoming all about them. The grass was growing long and tall, green and fresh, bright and lively; flowers were stretching forth and producing blossoms of beautiful whites, reds, blues, yellows, all colors; the trees rustled and swayed with clean and new leaves. There was the feeling of magic and freshness in the very air, so much that it felt like the air and ground tingled with it.

Fireflies and flowers petals swirled all about the musketeer as the light that seemed to emanate from him began to dim, a few stray Moon Moths took flight here and there. One of the moths came to alight upon the outstretched figure of the musketeer. To gaze at him now, you could see what the change was. Once he had a lifelikeness to him, but now there a sense of true life in him. He was a living creature, now and forever. The magic in his core had changed his nature into a flesh and blood being of inhuman beauty and handsomeness. He radiated tenderness and kindness, yet nobility and strength also were there. The flowers and vines that been part of his attire now were living parts of him, his outfit rippled like true fabric, the flower petals upon his back bent and fluttered in the breeze, and upon his back, a green stem had grown in the center where the key had once rested.

In the field, he gently turned letting the moth fly free, and knelt as he had before at Saylia who had wiped her tears away. He gently stroked her face. "No more tears my queen of flowers, dancer of life. This night shall not end in tears, but it will end. Night passes, and the sun rises anew, as it was made to be. Night and day are not evil, but there will always be corruption to ruin both."

She stared in wonder at what he had become. "Your father taught me of life and its beauty through his finger as he created my heart and core. The magic you released performed a final miracle: giving me true life and freedom to choose my path." He cupped her face in both of his hands. "You must live my lady. If you should go away from this earth, then my heart would break. I will fight for you all, but you are first and foremost upon my mind." He gently pulled her in close and kissed her upon the forehead.

Matthew had risen, as he if were a man who had been hypnotized and walked over to the clearing where the two knelt. The musketeer looked up at him with a most soft and beautiful smile. "My father… he… he actually made you to be capable of becoming this? Where did he learn… this?"

"Many a person passes through Piltover. It was through them that he learned of magic. This was but a small thing, yet he poured his finest craft into me. He made me for her but gave the gift of free will that I might be able to protect you all in a time of crisis; like what we now face."

The musketeer stood and stared out into the night. "The menace that already attacked is doubtlessly coming. You must flee. If I distract this foul, soulless thing long enough, it may lose sight of you. It cannot keep hunting forever, or at least grow weary of a pursuit that is not worth it in its mind."

Saylia stood, her expression concerned and afraid. "But if you stay and make a target of yourself…"

"It is all according to plan. It will not be so easy to overcome me now. It only needs to be held at bay. It will run out of desire to continue the chase. I will join you when it is over."

**. . . . . .**

The trio fled the darkness. The destination was to flee Piltover, but without money, it would be a more difficult journey that before. Natasha and Matthew were racing along but she was jerked to a stop by her son pulling out of her hands. "Matthew! What-?"

"Saylia!" he yelled looking back, half poised to run. "She's not here!"

**. . . . . .**

He stood silently in the clearing listening. His attention was upon a beautiful flower, like a rose in several ways. His head rose slightly. He heard birds somewhere. There weren't his adversaries, these were others having been disrupted somewhere from afar.

He continued his wait. Nothing else mattered, not so long as she lived. He had made his peace. And he would wait, until the time came.

. . . . . .

The light was dimmed but more intense and radiant than before. It must be dealt with. Nothing else could be done unless it was silenced.

. . . . . .

His left hand shot out to the side. There was a cry, and something fell upon the earth. The musketeer sighed. "It would be too easy to think it would end quietly and simply as that would it now? Far too easy."

The foot of Fiddlesticks stabbed out of the dark into the earth near the dead crow. The musketeer's thrown flower had impaled it through the chest. "Nothing to say," hissed the scarecrow.

"Indeed, there is nothing else to be said," he replied drawing his two swords. He pointed the left towards the scarecrow. "There is this, however. You will _not_ touch her. She is not yours to have."

With that he charged, a storm of razor-edged petals flowing before him to meet the cloud of birds that exploded from the darkness at the call of the scarecrow.

Their respective tools met, each representing their personalities and wills. The musketeer was graceful and flowing, the scarecrow wild and constantly jerking and swinging about, at times going in a circular, repetitive jumping sequence. The plants at times sought to aid the musketeer, but the birds were always complicating matters. It seemed as if there was no end to them.

Then, one of the trees caught the Harbinger of Doom and held him fast. Yes! The musketeer prepared to strike his foe down with a blow designed to ensnare him further and prevent him from roaming free for some time…

"Stop!" He turned at this. The voice. No, please no.

"Come away with me please! I need you!"

Saylia!

**. . . . . .**

"AHA!" yelled Fiddlesticks in triumph, taking advantage of the distraction to pull against the tree's efforts to hold him. He could not break free, but he could call out. In a matter of seconds, the clearing exploded with birds vomited forth from his mouth towards the girl.

"MY QUEEN!" yelled the Musketeer in clear terror. He dashed towards the girl to intercept the attackers and just managed to block the first of the birds. He began to take damage, small cuts and bruise, even as he cut them down.

The scarecrow laughed as he began to tear himself free. "I SEE IT! I SEE IT! THAT GIRL IS YOUR STRENGTH AND YOUR WEAKNESS! YAHAHAHAHAHAH!"

"My lady you must _flee_!" yelled the musketeer in desperation as more of the birds were called. The scarecrow was almost loose…

"I need you with me!" Saylia yelled beating at the birds with a stick.

"I cannot stop with _you_ here! You must let me go! If you don't, you will surely die!"

"But-"

"YOUR FATHER TOLD YOU TO LIVE!" yelled the musketeer, a maelstrom of thorny vines, and rose petals erupting from his wide-swept hands. "PLEASE! FOR ME!"

"I lose you as well," sobbed the girl. She straightened and rubbed her eyes. She must grow up; she could not be child forever. "I will! And I won't forget you ever my friend!"

Then a stray crow struck, and she went down. "NO!" yelled the girl's protector.

She was up and running, when the scarecrow was suddenly in the path. With a joyful cry of triumph, he swung.

Blood sprayed into the air.

. . . . . .

The musketeer felt the sight stab into his newly formed spirit and heart, and a terrible coldness seized him. He dropped his blades. The scarecrow with a smile, blood dripping off the scythe… and froze. There was suddenly a look of actual concern upon his face.

Everything in the clearing, every flower, wilted, and became black and ugly. A terrible stench filled the air, and the bare earth was exposed. It was as if a sudden flash freeze had occurred right there. The color drained from the musketeer, but at his center, in his chest, a star bloomed.

With an indecipherable cry he erupted with magical force and the black, dessicated, shriveled vegetation shot out with long tendrils like vines. The long, twisting things stab and pierced through all of the crows and kept going, their bodies impaled upon them, and the scarecrow was seized with terrible force and drug into the center of the dead clearing. He howled as his killing tool was ripped from his hand and roots began to bind and chain him. The bodies of the birds were stuffed and crushed into the prison as the vines continued to intertwine and weave together.

Deep within the newly created cage for his body, the scarecrow felt himself magically pierced in his rotted soul and he fell into dreamless state of unsleep, unable to do anything but howl inside the dark prison of his mind. Long would it be before he walked free again, he would in time, but that time would not be quick to arrive.

**. . . . . .**

A hand caressed her. Then she felt a call. Saylia woke up coughing, blood staining her dress. She stared in horror at the entombed scarecrow. The shimmering, spectral figure of her guardian knelt before her. He bowed and then began to shimmer and sparkle before slowly blowing away in shining petals of beautiful blue.

A blue sparkling flower was left in her hands. She clutched it to her chest, and then she got to her feet and ran to reunite with those of her family who still lived.

When she caught up to them the truth was revealed: she had been healed, but her voice had been destroyed when the scarecrow struck. Her guardian had managed to save her, but he could not undo all that had occurred.

Never did Saylia speak again, but she danced beautiful, tragic dances, and made splendid shoes. The flower remained with her to the ending of her life and when at long last she exhaled her final breath, the flower too died.

The survivors of that terrible incident and night fled Piltover for a time before returning. But they lived and stayed together always, seeking to make every moment they had together count. Saylia never married, though Matthew found love that helped heal his heart. The scarecrow would break free of his imprisonment after many years, but never would he chase them again. He had lost them. It was one of the few time he was denied his prey's death, but he still took much from them in the end.


End file.
